


Trial by Fire

by Askellie (NadaNine)



Series: SLAUE [11]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Begging, Bondage, Burns, Cannibalism, Dolcett - Freeform, Impalement, M/M, Multi, Other, Rape, Spit-roasting, Torture, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 02:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16845745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadaNine/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: “I must say, I have wondered...What exactly is the appeal in a skeleton? They hardly seem as interesting as other monster types.”“Would you like a demonstration?” Chara offers, their soft tone full of tantalizing promise. “Let me offer you a show to go along with our meal.”In which Sans has a very bad time. This is intense torture porn, guys, so please mind the warnings and keep yourself safe.





	Trial by Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting all my works from Tumblr.
> 
> Content Notes: Non-consensual Papyrus/Sans/Cinderin (Underswap Pap/Classic Sans/Underfell Grillby) with some human voyeurs. Mild underage sexual content (Chara is 16 and molesting Sans). Captivity/imprisonment, bondage, begging, torture (burns to bones and ecto-flesh), sexual spit roasting, LITERAL spit roasting (with people-sized cooking implements), cooking, cannibalism (implied humans eating monsters, monsters eating monsters, Dolcett, impalement (all the way through), dismemberment (non-permanent).

“I-it was a mistake, I swear!” Sans simpers, making sure to put a fearful waver in his voice as he hunches meekly in the hold of the guard. “You don’t gotta bother your boss about this, huh? Just throw me outside your gate and I’ll be gone, no fuss, no trouble.”

The pair of humans who’d caught him look staunchly unmoved by his pleading, proving not to be either as unmotivated or sympathetic as Sans might have hoped. At least they’re gentle – relatively speaking; if bones were more easily bruised, Sans would be wearing their handprints for the next week – as they drag him down a set of basement stairs and into a dark and dusty cellar. He desperately hopes it’s just the ordinary kind of dust, but there’s a sour, metallic undertone that leaves him uncertain.

In the murky lighting of single, flickering light bulb, he can make out the iron bars of grim little prison cell. Either this House is prone to attracting questionable visitors like himself, or the owner has some questionable proclivities. The rumors give him a strong inclination to suspect the latter.

One of the guards heaves the cell door open, and even though it slides easily on well-oiled hinges, the brief grimace of strain required is a testament to how heavy it is. Sans immediate discards any possibility of breaking it down or sawing through the steel. The bars, though narrow, have enough spacing that perhaps he can dislocate a few bones and slip out that way once he’s alone.

A hard shove between his shoulder blades pushes him against the wall at the back of the cell. He catches himself with his hands, cheekbone pressed to the rough brickwork. “Don’t move.”

He nods agreeably, unresisting as they methodically strips him down, pawing through his pockets and tearing through seams, looking for evidence of contraband. He suppresses a small grin as one guard combs in puzzlement through his assorted packets of condiments, and courageously manages to keep his face placid as the other scours through his ribcage and pelvis. Sans has already made sure there’s nothing to find. He left his phone behind, and managed to shove the files he’d stolen back into the cabinet before they’d caught him. The abrasive frisking leaves his bones feeling tender, and he’s glad that the search is only perfunctory and doesn’t linger.

“Turn around,” the frisking guard orders, and Sans is quick to obey. He needs them to believe that he’s cowed, meek and harmless. The quicker they dismiss him from their minds, the quicker he can leave. He’s already anticipated the magic-suppressing collar that Condiment Guard is readying, and he dutifully bares his neck to allow the human to put it on him.

“Wait,” Frisking Guard says, halting her companion. The look she gives Sans is uncomfortably intense. Without warning, she grabs one of his wrists and examines it, carefully scrutinising his carpels. Whatever she finds makes her give a scoff of disgust. “It’s a _skeleton_.”

Sans and Condiment Guard exchange a bemused look. Frisking Guard taps her foot impatiently. “Remember the trouble we had with the slime? There’s nothing solid holding its bones together. We can’t use the neck.”

Sans is practiced enough not to let his expression falter, but his soul gives an uncomfortable lurch as comprehension dawns on Condiment Guard’s face. Together the two of them pour over his anatomy, and eventually decide on locking the metal ring of the collar between the two holes of his ischium – one of the few places where solid bone provides an unbroken loop to anchor it. Satisfied, they leave, locking the heavy door behind them, and leaving Sans with an unprecedented complication in his escape plans.

“Shit,” he breathes quietly to himself, tentatively tugging on the ring and wincing as its uncomfortable weight swings pendulously between his femurs. The ring is seamless, all its circuits and mechanisms hidden beneath magically augmented metal. There’s no seams or locks to pry into, assuming he had a proper implement for doing it, and even if he had the physical strength to crack the delicate bones of his ischium, he doubts his HP could survive it once, let alone twice.

The guards have left him alone, giving him free reign to explore his little cell, but it’s mercilessly barren. There’s no bedding or cloth for him to weave any tools out of, no chips or cracks in the stonework, no windows or lights in the cell itself. It’s even unusually clean, the floor perfectly swept, almost sterile except for a few strange dark patches that look like they might have been bloodstains or burn marks. He traces them with his phalanges, forcing down his growing unease.

When he’s sure he’s exhausted all possibility, there’s nothing to do but sleep. It’s cold and dark, and the floor is hard under his naked bones, but it’s hardly the worst circumstances he’s ever had to endure. It’s almost easy to let his sockets lie closed, his mind quietly meditating on what options he has left, and he’s not sure how many hours pass until he finally notices that the lack of chill in the air isn’t a sign he’s grown accustomed to the temperature, but a significant change in his surroundings. He opens his eyes, and almost flinches back from the demonic stare leering at him through the cell bars.

“Hello, little skeleton,” the elemental says, his eyes two bright, pale sparks in the shifting flames of his face. “I hear you got lost and somehow ended up in my Mistress’s private study.”

Even after knowing Grillby for years, Sans sometimes has trouble reading his friend’s shifting, featureless expressions, and this unknown elemental is equally inscrutable. Unlike Grillby, his flames are a deep purple hue that ripple and shift beneath his ostentatious fur-trimmed coat. Still, there’s a crook of jagged lightning were his mouth might be – the hint of an amused smirk – that draws Sans to creep closer.

“Heya,” he says, not needing to pretend much to sound suitably sheepish. “It’s uh. Just a misunderstanding, really. It’s getting pretty cold out, you know? I was just looking for a little something to burn to keep my bones from freezing and didn’t think anyone would miss a few little bits of paper. Who’da thought, right?”

He gives a short laugh, the syllables just slightly too loud and slow. He’s been blessed with the kind of face that makes it easy for others to dismiss him as an idiot. Round cheeks, oversized eye-sockets and an empty skeleton grin fit the stereotype of the stupid monster bumpkin who doesn’t know any better. He watches the elemental carefully, but there’s no indication if he’s falling for the act or not.

“It’s pretty tough out there for monsters like me,” he continues blithely. There’s no point in trying to be subtle; the idiot he’s emulating wouldn’t be. “I was always told that monsters should be free, but uh. Monsters should be warm and fed too, yeah? I’ve been thinking maybe humans had the right idea after all. If your Mistress would be kind enough to forgive my little mistake, I would owe her an enormous debt. I could make it up to her! I’m sure I can be useful if you take me in!”

The illusion of the elemental’s smile widens a crack. It isn’t a very pleasant expression. “Little skeleton, if my Mistress wanted another servant, she could buy someone much stronger and prettier than you.”

It’s impossible to tell if the elemental is just baiting him, or pushing him into a more desperate negotiation. Sans has to hope it’s the latter, and strains to think of what he can offer to sweeten the deal. Information? A promise of some specialised magic? He gives the elemental a calculating look, wondering if it’s sexual favours he’s angling for, but before he can make an overture the elemental speaks again.

“But luckily for you, my Mistress has already thought of a way you can repay her.”

Sans perks, broadcasting gullible hope, but inwardly he feels a twinge of dread. Negotiating was off the table, then. “Really?”

“It’ll be a very fitting compensation,” the elemental tells him, radiating perverse delight, “because just like you, she’s also looking for something to burn.”

The elemental chuckles as Sans’s mind wracks itself over every possible interpretation of those words. None of them mean anything good for him. He manages to dredge up a shaky smile. “Heh. Is that a joke or something?

The elemental reaches for him through the bars. Sans holds himself still with difficulty, braced to dodge if he needs to, but the elemental just sets his fingers briefly on the side of Sans’s face, heat licking eagerly at the bone before withdrawing.

“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow night, little skeleton,” the elemental tells him, and walks away, his light and heat slowly fading from the cell, leaving Sans feeling colder than before.

 

* * *

 

The hours pass with painful slowness. Sans almost wishes they’d left him with a guard if only to give him a companion with which to pass the time. A barred door doesn’t make the best sounding board for his knock knock jokes, and for once, sleep doesn’t come to him easily. There’s nothing to do but wait, stewing in his anxieties and a thousand half-formed what-ifs.

When the elemental returns for him, however, he has an easy, guileless smile prepared.He doesn’t have a plan, but he’s survived worse. He’s survived the outbreak of war, and the enslavement of his species, and _Chara_. He’ll find a way.

(Or die trying, he supposes, with morbid amusement.)

“Heya,” he greets the elemental. “Gonna take me to meet your Mistress?”

“Soon,” the elemental agrees, unlocking the door. The flames in his forearm ripple impressively, and there’s no sign of the strain the guard displayed as he slides the heavy door with ease.

He has a leash to fasten to Sans’s collar, and his expression morphs into a blatant leer when he realises exactly where the ring is currently attached. Sans averts his gaze, not entirely able to keep cyan from coloring his face as the elemental deftly reaches down to his pelvis, thumbing the intrusive device. Its weight alone has irritated the bone beneath, leaving it flushed with a rash-like haze of magic that looks, at first glance, like unfortunate arousal. His breath hitches as the elemental’s fingers graze over the metal, heating it against his over-sensitised ischium. The soft rattle of his bones sounds too loud in the small space of the cell, but the exploration doesn’t last longer than required to clasp the leash securely.

“Come, little skeleton,” the elemental says, giving the leash a playful tug that jolts right through his pelvis. Sans’s knees quake, but he manages not to stagger as he follows the elemental out of the cell.

“The name’s Sans,” he offers hopefully. It’s slightly more difficult, he’s learned, to dust someone whose name you know personally. “What should I call you?”

The elemental gives him a searching look, and for a moment Sans thinks he won’t get a response, but

“It’s Cinderin. But you should call me ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir,” Sans says agreeably, struggling to keep up with the elemental’s much longer strides. He doesn’t want to provide any excuse for tugging on the ring at his pelvis.

Sans had the House’s layout memorised from a set of old plans before he broke in, but the interior of the building must have been renovated at some point. The elemental leads him up a flight of stairs that shouldn’t exist, and down a corridor that had once been part of the servant’s quarters. He’s already making calculations in his head. It’ll strain his magic, but he should still be able to reach the outer gates with one shortcut, and get back to the cover of the nearby forest with a second one. All he needs is to find a way to sweet-talk his way out of the ring on his pelvis.

As he’s musing through his options, trying to think of a conversation opener that might appeal to the elemental, they reach the end of the corridor. The door in front of them looks plain, but Sans can feel Cinderin’s magic imbued heavily in the wood. It’s the kind of markings monsters use to guard their homes, that Sans has used to ward his room back at Chara’s estate, so he expects this must belong to Cinderin. The implications of that aren’t positive, but if the elemental’s intention is to bed him that will make Sans’s plan more feasible. It’d be hard to fuck properly with the ring in the way.

Sans has already prepared himself, his body pliant and willing as Cinderin nudges him through the doorway, but the room on the other side isn’t at all what he was expecting. It doesn’t look like a bedroom at all. Bizarrely enough, it looks kind of like a tavern, or maybe a kitchen. There’s a bar-like area surrounded by stools, and while there’s definitely some liquors on the shelves behind the counter, there’s also spices and a number of other implements like knives, meat mallets and tongs.

“Uh…” Stupefaction seems like an acceptable reaction to the role he’s trying to play, so he lets his confusion show. “I thought I was meeting your Mistress?”

“Not until you’re properly dressed,” Cinderin tells him pleasantly, his jagged smile pulling wide at some private joke Sans can’t decipher. “She’ll be here by the time you’re ready.”

Every instinct Sans has is screaming at him in warning. For a wild moment, Sans thinks about whether he could manage to take Cinderin in a fight. Even with his magic, it would be a risky prospect, because despite how amicable the elemental seems outwardly, Sans can’t help but be uneasily aware of the truth written across the other monster’s soul.

Cinderin’s LOVE is fourteen.

That’s a number higher than self defence would merit, but Sans tries not to judge too harshly, especially for his brethren in human households. Some humans think it’s fun to force monsters against each other in public arenas or private pit-fights, and in those situations it’s kill or be killed.

But…

Sans has a good eye for reading people, and Cinderin doesn’t strike him as a fighter. He doesn’t have the same poised alertness or twitchy desperation. He doesn’t scour his surroundings, looking for threats, and he certainly didn’t size Sans up like one would an opponent. He seems utterly at ease as he moves towards the bar area, pulling the chain to force Sans to follow.

He isn’t expecting to be treated like a guest, but Sans isn’t sure what to do with himself as Cinderin leads him behind the counter. The centerpiece of the bar seems to be a large steel benchtop, and it takes Sans a moment to remember why it looks oddly familiar. It’s almost like the setup that fancy restaurants used to have for demonstrative cooking – the kind where they’d grill the food in front of their patrons and serve immediately. From another perspective, it also looks like a sterile surface that might be used in a hospital or a laboratory, with shallow troughed sides to keep mess from spreading whilst minimising the effort of clean-up.

Just looking at it makes Sans’s bones feel cold with dread. It’s a torture table, with up-close and personal seating for viewers to enjoy the show.

Cinderin slides his hands almost lovingly across the steel, humming to himself. “It’s time to prepare you, little skeleton. Lie down here, please.”

Even though he knows resistance won’t be helping his case, Sans can’t seem to compel his body to obey that order. Thankfully the elemental doesn’t seem angry. He approaches Sans with an air that’s almost gentle, lifting the skeleton and cradling him briefly against his chest. The fur of his jacket tickles Sans’s ribs, unexpectedly luxurious.

Sans feels especially small in the other monster’s arms. His hands seek out a more secure hold on Cinderin’s broad shoulders even though he can tell his weight is practically negligible to the elemental. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to reconsider?”

Cinderin regards him, an almost tangible moment of consideration passing between them before he takes another step and lays Sans out on the steel bench.

“This part won’t be painful,” he offers, as if that’s any sort of consolation.

Sans can feel his bones sweating, and he knows it’s not from the heat. “Good, ‘cuz, uh. It’s really not necessary. If there’s anything you want from me, I can just-”

He makes an attempt to sit up, and Cinderin’s flames flare with searing heat. The air sizzles, and Sans falls back reflexively, sockets wide as the elemental’s body distorts and stretches to fearsome proportions before settling once again.

“What I meant,” Cinderin says, perturbingly calm, “is that this part won’t be painful unless you give me a reason to hurt you.”

Sans lies flat again, his body twitching slightly with adrenaline fueled aftershocks. “Yessir.”

Cinderin’s face softens back to an amused smile. “Good boy.”

The elemental turns away to rifle through a cupboard. Sans tries to scrutinise the rest of the room without making his intentions obvious. There’s no windows and no doors aside from the one they entered through. There’s a fireplace on the opposite wall, lit and burning brightly, making the chimney an unlikely escape route. There’s plenty of dangerous looking implements in the kitchen, but none of them are in reach from where he’s lying, and even if he had one in hand he’s not sure how much damage a metal knife could do against a fire elemental. It might just pass harmlessly through his flames and melt. Supposedly there should be a solid, molten core somewhere in Cinderin’s body, but Sans doesn’t know how big it might be or how to ensure he can target it.

Before he has a chance to think any further, Cinderin is looming over him again, gleefully flexing a length of thin rope between his hands. His gaze rakes over Sans’s body in thought, and after a moment he lifts Sans’s wrist and folds it back towards his rib cage, pushing his forearm so it rests closely against his humerus.

“Hold still,” Cinderin directs, and mindful of the dangerous heat the other can emit, Sans has no choice but to comply. A few deft loops catch his wrist in a tight cuff which is then fastened to his collarbone. When the knots are tied to Cinderin’s satisfaction, he continued moving down Sans’s arm, tying his radius to his humerus, and then his ulna to his ribs in several places. Heat skims across Sans’s bones, noticeably warmer than before, and even though the rope looks brittle it doesn’t singe from the contact.

“Flame resistant,” Cinderin explains unnecessarily with the air of fondness reserved for those who take pride in their implements. Sans quickly diverts his gaze, not wholly comfortable with the increasingly satisfied expression on the elemental’s face. His wrist bones rattle softly as Cinderin tucks his free arm back against his chest and binds it identically, leaving his hands tucked uselessly below his chin. He squirms experimentally, but there’s no give in the soft rope. He can’t unfold his arms for either balance or protection, and it’s an immensely helplessly feeling.

The proficient way Cinderin moves down to his legs, making a few quick calculations and measurements before folding Sans’s knees up to bind fibula to femur, suggests this is a routine he’s well-practiced in. An increasingly pertinent question keeps pushing its way to the front of Sans’s thoughts. He clears his throat uncomfortably, finding it unnaturally parched. “So, uh. What exactly do you do for your Mistress? You her jailor or interrogator, or…?”

Cinderin shakes his head, his smile practically splitting his face in half as he neatly ties off the loops near Sans’s ankles. Both legs are now practically immobile, folded close to his pelvis, but forced to spread slightly to accommodate the ring between his ischium. Cinderin’s hand runs down the plane of his leg in a stroke that’s somehow more appreciative than sensual. “I’m her personal chef.”

The hints clicked into place. The steel table that looks like it belongs in a kitchen. The thin rope binding him up like a fowl for roasting. The throwaway comment about _dressing_. It’s either an awful joke or a horrific revelation, and if the goal is to see him afraid, it’s devastatingly effective.

A distressed sound creeps unbidden from his throat, and he wrenches mindlessly against the bindings in a way that only succeeds in making him realise how vulnerable he currently is. Cinderin mutters to himself as he rifles through the implements beside the table. With a hum of success, he selects the one he’s looking for. Sans can only stare at it aghast. It’s a thick metal pole, as long as Sans’s full, unslouching height. It looks like a spear, but in the context of a kitchen, Sans comes to the horrified realisation that it’s actual purpose is as a spit-roast skewer.

“Whoa,” he says, his mouth running without permission as his mind balks at the possibilities the skewer represents. “That’s pretty big. You roasting up a whole cow or something?”

“Or something,” Cinderin agrees, lining up the skewer between Sans’s legs. Sans immediately tries to pinch his knees together, but he’s hampered by the bindings. Cinderin patiently pries them apart. His grip has made the tip of the skewer hot enough for Sans to feel it from inches away.

“Y-y’know, skeletons aren’t really made for cooking,” he babbles senselessly, poised between disbelief and dread. He arches desperately, trying to roll himself away from the imminent danger, but his weak body isn’t strong enough to overcome the encumbrance of the awkward way he’s been tied. “We don’t really have any meat on our bones, and-waitwaitWAIT, don’t-HURK!”

Hot metal slides through his pelvic inlet, grating against the ring in his ischium with an awful sound. Sans goes ridgid, tense and trembling. Despite his fears about its size, its narrow enough to fit through the cavity cleanly with space to spare, but the heat radiating from the metal makes his bones tingle with an unbearable itch. The lack of pain doesn’t make it any less invasive or harrowing.

“This part is usually much messier with fleshy monsters,” Cinderin notes idly. The part of Sans’s mind that isn’t wild with fear thinks the throw-away comment is probably just a lie – a fleshy monster would probably dust at this point, making them useless for consumption – but then he feels the skewer slide into him another few inches and his ability to coherently rationalise the situation dissipates in a haze of panic.

“W-what do you want from me? You wanna know how I g-got into the House? I can tell you anything!” He tries to catch Cinderin’s gaze to get a read on him for his desperate bargaining plea, but the elemental is too focused on his task. “Just take it out already! Please, ahh-! Haaaaaah-!”

The pole is sliding up through his rib cage, passing through the space where his soul would normally manifest. Sans squeezes his sockets shut and bites down on his pitiful sounds, forcefully reminding himself that despite the uncomfortable heat of the skewer it isn’t yet enough to scald him, it doesn’t hurt, his HP is fine, he’s going to be-

He sucks in a sharp breath as the tip of the skewer breaches through his collarbone. He can feel the point pressing under his chin, and when he dares to open his eyes all he can see is the eerie purple of Cinderin’s flames as the elemental leans over him. Two fingers press against his teeth, applying meaningful pressure. “Open.”

Sans gives a small but fervent shake of his head. It makes no difference. All Cinderin needs to do is pry into the joint of Sans’s mandible, his easy strength more than sufficient to overcome Sans’s resistance. His teeth part with a yelp, and immediately he feels the skewer come up behind his jawbone and pierce alarmingly out through his open mouth.

He chokes in distress, his body frantically trying to accomodate for the unnatural protrusion, magic sparkling across his throat and teeth in a futile attempt to dislodge the invader. He can feel the prickle of magic at the corner of his sockets as his body tries to wretch, coughing weakly at the unbearable discomfort of being utterly penetrated. The metal slides against his teeth as Cinderin pushes it further through him, and his head is forced back, jaw stretching painfully to accommodate the full girth of the skewer instead of just its tapered tip.

“Good boy. You took it so well,” Cinderin croons, running a hand down Sans’s impaled body. The only response Sans can make is a wet, gagged whimper, vainly squirming in place to try ease the places where the skewer’s weight digs uncomfortably into his bones.

He can’t turn or tilt his head, so there’s no way for him to watch what Cinderin is doing as he cranks some unseen handle below the stove top. The reprieve gives him a moment to stretch out his fingers, reaching for where the skewer juts up behind his sternum, running parallel to his throat. He can barely touch it with the tip of his phalanges, but there’s not enough friction to push it either further through his body or back out the way it came.

Beneath the stovetop there’s a dangerous hiss of gas, and an abrupt woof of sound as it catches alight. Sans jolts, feeling the metal beneath him growing warm beneath his shoulder blades and bare sacrum. The skewer keeps his jaw, ribs and pelvis locked in a stiff line, its weight enough to keep him pinned down. He gives an unrestrained whine, bound limbs flexing in panic, but just as the heat threatens to become unbearable Cinderin leans back over him, taking hold of the skewer and _lifting_.

“Calm down,” Cinderin tells him, insincerely soothing as Sans chokes and writhes on the skewer. “You’ll char if we keep you on the grill. A slow heat cooks more evenly.”

He’s set up a pair of support brackets on either side of the stove, each ending in a forked prong sized perfectly to fit the width of the skewer. He sets it down, making small adjustments to ensure it’s evenly balanced, leaving Sans fully suspended by nothing but the integrity of his own bones where the steel rod is lanced through him. His ribcage is sturdy enough to hold his weight, but neither his pelvis nor his jaw were made for load-bearing. The pressure building behind his pubic symphysis aches in a brutal, unsatisfying way, and the scrape of metal behind his mandible makes him wonder if his lower teeth will crack from the strain.

He’s no longer lying directly over the heat source, but instead is suspended slightly more than a foot above it. He can feel it radiating from below, and though the current heat feels bearable he doubts it’ll stay that way. He’s never had to test how impervious skeletons are to heat. Will his bones actually cook? His magic will be able to protect him for a while, but eventually he’ll start to tire.

A loud, booming knock is the only warning before the door across the room opens. Cinderin looks pleased, quickly murmuring to Sans, “Ah, my Mistress and her guest are finally here.”

Sans can only barely see them from the corner of his socket which is already watering from the heat searing the air around him. Cinderin’s mistress is someone he knows only by her vicious reputation. Lady Valory is a blurred impression of pale curls and red silk, her laugh tinkling sweetly as she says, “I hope you’ve saved your appetite. I had my Chef prepare something very special. It’s well known you have a particular taste for skeletons, so…”

There’s a dramatic pause, and Sans can feel the eyes upon him – his helpless, skewered body, shuddering with desperate, feeble twitches. The pressure under his jawbone is starting to feel painful rather than merely uncomfortable and he can’t help giving another pitiful wheeze of sound. He almost misses her guest’s reply.

“What a delightful treat,” Chara says, and the unexpected familiarity makes Sans’s socket go wide, his eyelight rolling wildly to track the source of the voice. Chara makes it easy for him, leaning close enough that he can’t see anything past their bright red eyes and cherubic smile. “Where did you find it? I thought I’d snatched up all the ones that came to market.”

For a moment, Sans wonders if they’ve been played. Does Valory know who Sans belongs to? Has she brought Chara here to confront them, to make them watch Sans’s torture to see if it’ll elicit some kind of response or weakness?

Her response seems perfectly sincere, without any hidden barbs or insinuations that might imply she knew a connection existed. “This one actually came to me. My guard found the stupid thing trying to steal from my house. The moment I heard about it, of course I thought of you.”

The coquettish flattery is hardly subtle, nor is the hand she presses to Chara’s arm. Not a threat, then; she’s just another sycophant trying to seek Chara’s approval. For once, Chara’s perverse tastes have worked in their favor. Sans wonders if she notices that Chara barely takes note of her at all. Instead, their attention is focused on Sans as they reach up to carefully run a finger through the streaks of wet beneath his eye-socket that haven’t yet evaporated in the heat.

At the touch, Sans feels a jolt through his chest, like his soul has stuttered and knocked itself against the inside of his sternum. His immediate, thoughtless reaction is – absurdly – one of relief. If Chara is here, he’s saved. Not because of loyalty or compassion, but Chara is nothing if not possessive of their toys. They won’t be able to abide Sans belonging to anyone else. He’s sure of that…but when he raises his gaze to meet Chara’s, all he can see is pure, unadulterated glee reflecting back in their crimson eyes.

“I’m so flattered,” Chara says. “I’ve heard the rumors of your midnight banquets. I’m guessing this is the special ingredient?”

“Mmm,” Valory says, and Sans is suddenly glad he can’t see their face. He isn’t sure he’d be able to handle the guttural pleasure she manages to convey in her agreement. “They say a sprinkle of monster dust will keep you young. It adds a certain spice, to be sure, but the texture is like sand. I much prefer a more delicate meal, which my Chef here provides.”

Sans knows, intellectually, that Chara is hardly the worst humanity has to offer, but listening to the frank discussion of Valory’s appetites is almost worse than hanging on the skewer.

“I see,” Chara says, sounding entirely too enraptured. “If you keep them alive when you start cooking-”

“-you get the most succulent, divine flavors,” Valory breaths, euphoric. “It’s wonderful. I was a little unsure if a skeleton would be a suitable ingredient for tonight’s feat, but my dearest Cinderin tells me it’s possible.”

“I appreciate the challenge, Mistress,” Cinderen tells her modestly. His voice reflects the same the same depraved pleasure as his owner, and Sans doesn’t have to wonder how his LV crept all the way up to Fourteen. “A slow roasting, and then we crack the bones to release the marrow. It should be soft enough to-”

There’s a faint, nauseous noise from the back of the room, outside the limited scope of Sans’s vision. He can still see the way Cinderin’s mouth twists into an amused smile as the elemental gently offers, “I’m sorry, I didn’t take the feelings of your assistant into consideration.”

“He’s fine,” Chara says dismissively. “Aren’t you, Pap?”

“Well, I could use a smoke,” Papyrus drawls, and though Sans flinches, it probably doesn’t look like more than another weak attempt to adjust himself on the skewer. He should have guessed; in the rare instances Chara left the House on business, Papyrus always accompanies them. He wants to be grateful, because Papyrus is supposed to help keep Chara in check, but he knows the presence of another human will complicate things. Papyrus will have to be covert with his signals, if Chara even deigns to notice them. Their willful expression suggests they’re not in the mood to be leashed.

“Go upstairs then,” Chara goads.

There’s an unnerving long moment of hesitation before Papyrus replies, “Nah. I’ll stick around.” More quietly, as if he’s not intending to be overheard, he adds, “Just seems like a waste to me.”

“A waste?” Valory says sharply, indignant, but Sans feels a flutter of hope in his soul. He’s familiar with Papyrus’s leading tone.

“I mean, I’m sure he’ll be delicious.” Sans can picture the smooth, placating smile Papyrus must be offering. “It’s just why not make the most of everything he has to offer, huh? Sample your ingredients.”

“I doubt my Mistress would find much enjoyment in raw food,” Cinderin counters, sounding unimpressed.

“Maybe you’ve just never prepared it correctly,” Papyrus teases, but beneath the playful tone there’s a hint of challenge. Sans hears footsteps approaching, but still isn’t prepared for the sudden, firm grip down his exposed spine. His body jerks painfully on the skewer, but Papyrus’s experienced hand knows just how tight to squeeze to make Sans give a choked, uncertain moan around the shaft of mental. The haze of magic around the ring flares, condenses, and he feels a thin trickle peeling down the bone before it drops to the grill, sizzling loudly and obscenely.

There’s a thick moment of consideration from all parties that Sans tries not to feel humiliated by.

“I must say, I have wondered,” Valory murmurs. “What exactly is the appeal in a skeleton? They hardly seem as interesting as other monster types.”

“Would you like a demonstration?” Chara offers, their soft tone full of tantalizing promise. “Let me offer you a show to go along with our meal.”

The sly double-entendre makes her laugh. “Oh, you fiend. Very well. Let’s start with an appetiser to help whet our appetites for the main course. Cinderin, dear? Take it down.”

There’s a huff of poignant displeasure, but no outright objection as Cinderin heaves the skewer off its support struts. Sans winces, feeling every small movement achingly magnified through his impaled bones, but for all his annoyance Cinderin places him back down beside the grill with care, situating him to face outward at his interested audience. Cinderin’s Mistress looks unexpectedly young for someone so brutal, perhaps only a few years older than Chara. Papyrus looks expectedly dishevelled, his tie loose and vest buttons misaligned, but though his expression looks calm enough there’s a tightness in his jaw that Sans knows too well. Instead of his usual cigarette, he’s biting down on a sucker whose stick is already showing the indents of fretful teeth marks. Chara smiles at him, full of meaning and secrets, and Sans holds their gaze for only a moment before averting his eyes, afraid to give away too much.

It’s only now that he’s away from the grill that he can feel the effusive sweat on his bones. The cool marble of the benchtop is an incredible relief on his overheated sternum, and Sans goes limp against it, bracing as he feels the first tug of the skewer leaving his body. He arches his jaw to help accommodate it as the tip is drawn back through his mouth, and even though the sensation of it sliding through his body is utterly harrowing, he doesn’t hold back a sob of relief. He knows what Chara likes to see, so it’s fine to let the wet, wrenching sounds fall out of his mouth unrestrained.

“T’ankyew,” he coughs weakly, the agonising pain in his mandible making him struggle with the syllables. He let out a tight groan as the skewer was dragged through his pelvis, scraping against the ring once again. “A-ah! Ta…thaank…thank you, thank you…”

Chara’s small hands gently cup the sides of his head, holding him as if he were something precious and fragile they very much wanted to shatter. “So polite! But you know, it’ll take more than that if you really want to show your gratitude.”

Valory gives a delighted, cruel giggle, but concern for his dignity is very low on Sans’s list of priorities. He nods enthusiastically, relishing in the freedom he has now that the skewer isn’t holding his body in a rigid, painful line. “W-whatever you want! Anything! Please-!”

He arches himself towards Chara, allowing them to roll him over onto his back, and is surprised when their soft mouth presses against his teeth. Normally Chara prefers to watch, averse to touch except in rare instances. It takes Sans a moment to adjust to their strange fleshy texture, the odd density of their human body, but then he opens his own mouth and yields, letting them explore his conjured tongue and the points of fangs he doesn’t usually show. He’s too stressed to objectively decide if it’s a good kiss, but it’s slow and gentle and leaves him strangely lightheaded. His ribs heaving for unnecessary breath and his mouth tingles like he just made out with an electrical socket, leaving him with the same dizzy relief that he somehow escaped it unscathed.

“How precious,” the other human coos, although this time there’s a slight note of derision in her voice. “Is this how gently you treat all your pets?”

Sans is probably the only one to notice the incremental tightening of Chara’s grip, and only because it feels like his skull is caught in a vise. He’s stuck in helpless proximity to Chara’s dangerous smile as it hitches into a more demonic expression. “I find it easier to reward good behaviour. It’s how I know our new friend is going to be a very good boy for us, isn’t he?”

Sans gives a fervent nod, not needing to fake the shudder of terror that rattles down his spine. Chara leans closer again, and Sans readily parts his teeth to receive them, but instead of a kiss Chara reaches down his body and takes hold of the ring in his pelvis with a sharp, painful tug. He yelps, magic buzzing fiercely around the chafed bones of his ischium.

“I’m sure you know how to summon a body better suited to pleasing others,” Chara tells him, giving the ring another meaningful tug.

This is it. This is the opening he needs, which surely Chara must have offered to him intentionally. “Sure, I can do that, but uh. Not with something in the way down there.”

Sans squirms meaningfully, trying to raise his hips to relieve the pressure Chara’s hold is exerting. He knows his discomfort is pleasing to them, which is fine so long as it makes him look pitiful and harmless. With the ring off, he’ll be able to teleport out…sure, that’ll leave Chara in an awkward position, but he knows they’ll be able to talk themselves out of trouble.

He gives his best beseeching look, expecting Chara to fold, _to set him free_ , but instead they give a small, skeptical quirk of their brow. “Hmm, that doesn’t seem right. What do you think, Pap?”

Sans turns towards Papyrus, sockets wide and faintly horrified because surely Pap is on his side…but Papyrus’s eye-lights flick between them uncertainty, lingering too long on Chara.There’s a faint crunch as he bites down on his lollipop, and reluctantly offers, “It shouldn’t be a problem if he wants it enough.”

“There you go!” Chara says, sounding bright and pleased. “And you want this, don’t you, pet?”

They aren’t letting him go, or at least not right away. They want their fun first, as if Sans’s terror and compliance hasn’t already given them their fill. Sans tells himself that’s not so terrible. It’s not like he’s never been in this position before.

(Just never when there’s been another human involved. When the stakes have been high with risk if she realises there’s more going on between Sans and Chara. Risk makes Chara more reckless, chasing the thrill of possible failure, and Sans doesn’t want his pain to be their currency when they inevitably overdraw themselves.)

He takes an uneven breath, reminding himself there’s no choice. All he can do is obey. “R-right. Just let me…”

He doesn’t want this, which only makes it harder, but he wasn’t lying about the ring being a difficult impediment. He calls on his magic, and it flickers uneasily over his bones, hesitating around the shape of the ring that occupies the space it would normally take for itself. He has to mold it, tighten it, forcing it to adhere to the places he wants it, and when the shape of his ecto-body reluctantly manifests it feels like he’s squeezed into a piece of clothing two sizes too small. The magic already wants to split down the seams, so he has to reinforce it with his will. The strain leaves him feeling slightly light-headed.

“Good boy,” Chara murmurs, giving the ring another tug, and Sans gives a discomforted squeak at the alarming sensation of something foreign pulling at his ecto-flesh.

His magic has done its best to form his pussy as usual, but the ring is simply to large to be encased. It hangs below his stomach, protruding outward over his pubis like an absurd handle. Chara’s pulling feels bizzare – not quite painful, but the way it presses against his insides sends confusing signals of pleasure and pressure through his cunt. It’s more intense than he cares for, but Chara seems thoroughly entertained by the uncontrollable spluttering sounds he can’t seem to repress.

“I thought you wanted a show?” Paps asks, clearly trying to move things along. He’s far more considerate than chara of how poor Sans’s stamina is. Sans almost throws him a grateful look before thinking better of it. If either Chara or his companion suspect they’re in collusion, it won’t end well for either for them.

The stubborn ferocity hasn’t abated from Chara’s expression, and Sans feels a shudder of nerves run through his limbs. Even with their growing harem of toys to play with, he knows Chara has always held a special interest in him. Papyrus has gotten more skilled at breaking someone down, prying into all their weaknesses so deftly that the damage is almost unnoticeable when he puts them back together again, but he’s never truly cracked Sans’s innermost layers for Chara. Their shared Master has always been petulantly obsessed with things they can’t have.

This isn’t their House. Papyrus can’t divert their attention with another game, another toy, or flat out refuse them when another human might wonder why Chara would bother to listen to a monster. There’s enough rumors of monster sympathies surrounding their house; they can’t afford to give any truth to them.

Chara finds him useful, but Sans has never fooled himself into believing he’s irreplaceable, and the only thing Chara’s ever really cared about is their own entertainment. He can see their sharp mind working, cogs turning fervently with realisation that this room is a playground where they can forego their usual rules. Papyrus can’t stop them. The other human will only goad them on. They have the unprecedented opportunity to see what Sans might have been trying to hold back from them all this time, and Sans can see their hunger for it, wet, red and glistening like the tip of their tongue flicking across their perfect white teeth.

“Maybe I’m hungrier than I thought,” Chara says, their voice lower, huskier than before. “He did look good on the grill, didn’t he?”

Alarm is showing through the cracks in Papyrus’s composure. Sans can see him struggling for some alternate suggestion that doesn’t sound like refusal, but Chara’s already continuing.

“How about a different kind of spit-roasting?” Chara’s expression is full of wicked delight at their own cleverness as he turns towards Valory. “Your chef and my chaperone can put him back on the heat and share him. Let’s see if he’s motivated enough to satisfy them before his bones start to char.”

“Ooh, a challenge for our little roastling,” the Valory surmises gleefully. “I do like my meals well-done. Will you baste him for us, Cinderin?”

“With pleasure, my lady.”

Normally Sans would be appreciative of the number of food-based puns if the context wasn’t so appalling. He struggles to overcome the paralysed horror knotted in his throat as Cinderin carefully eases him from Chara’s hold and lifts him up. Blind panic makes his soul hammer painfully behind his ribs as they move back towards the stove, and it takes him a moment to force his voice louder than a frayed whisper.

“I’ll dust,” he blurts, squirming pathetically in Cinderin’s arms, but the thin ropes haven’t loosened or frayed; heat resistant, just like Cinderin said. “I can’t, I’ll…Cha-!”

He bites down before he can utter Chara’s name. He could call them out, he could expose them, spill all his secrets to Cinderin and his Mistress, tell them he was stealing their records on Chara’s behalf. It might keep him alive a little longer, and it would make things difficult for Chara, but in the end it’ll only delay the inevitable. Chara can talk their way out of trouble, and he knows if he betrays them they won’t make any effort to spare him.

Over the peak of Cinderin’s shoulder he can see their face, and he _knows_ they know he was going to call for them. They look jubilant, grinning at Sans with a smile full of anticipation, and he forces himself to take a shaky breath. Chara’s contests are cruel, but they usually keep their word. If he can take care of Pap and Cinderin, they’ll let him off the grill. Chara will find a way to save him. He has to believe that. It’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart in a fit of senseless terror.

Sans doesn’t consider himself brave. He’s not strong willed. He’s not stubborn like Edge or persistant like Blue. He has no false notions about his own resilience in the face of pain and suffering except for the comforting knowledge that sooner or later it’ll be over. Patience is the only attribute he has on his side, but often that’s all he needs to endure through whatever new torment Chara wants to explore.

No amount of mental preparation is enough to mitigate that first, awful moment when Cinderin sets him down on the stovetop. The fire beneath it has been burning steadily, and if Sans thought it was unbearable when he was suspended a foot above it, it’s so much worse with his bare shoulders and spine resting directly on the scalding metal.

He takes in a sharp breath, but the scream gets lost somewhere between his rib cage and his throat. His bones quake with the pain, going tight and brittle with the heat, but be can feel his magic desperately working to disperse and protect him from the scorching. There’s no ill intent behind it, so incredibly he can tell it’s not yet touching his HP, but prolonged strain will sap his magic and shred the matter of his body.

The effect on his lower half is even more severe. He’s never had his ecto-flesh exposed to fire, and he can feel it sticking in a horrifying way to the expanse of the griddle. The pain isn’t as immediate and intense; his false nerves are confused and overloaded by the unexpected stimulus, but he can feel the heat building in an unbearable way. He wonders if it’s possible to boil inside his own skin.

“Ahhhhaaah, fuck,” he chokes, his spine arching to no avail. Cinderin has a hold of his hips, not at all affected by the heat. In fact, the look on his face suggests he’s enjoying it. The exposed flames on his hands and face flicker with incandescent excitement, and the heat pouring off him is almost comparable to the grill itself. He pushes Sans’s bound legs wide, and Sans hisses as more of the soft rolls of his hips come into contact with the burning metal beneath him. He holds himself very still as Cinderin thoughtfully evaluates his pussy. A surprisingly carefully hand – warm on contact instead of burning like Sans expects it to be – brushes over his folds, parting them with the delicacy that’s unjustifiably erotic, and even though Sans doesn’t expect to find any sort of pleasure in this, a sharp jolt rocks through him when Cinderin’s fingers brush against the ring. Lifting it out of the way makes it twist uncomfortably through his ecto-flesh, but the anchored end feels like it’s threaded directly through some previously undiscovered pleasurable nerve. It makes Sans gasp, a violent tremble rattling through him.

Fingers hook into his open mouth, yanking his head back, and though he’s familiar enough with Papyrus’s cock to recognise it when it’s pressing against his cheek, it’s the taste of ash and nicotine on Papyrus’s phalanges that makes him unconsciously relax. This is familiar; routine. His mind doesn’t need to be on board because his body knows what to do. He lets Papyrus angle his skull back further, craning his neck to an unsustainable degree, and parts his jaw as much as he’s able. If they weren’t limited by how long Sans can endure the heat, this would be where Papyrus would tease him, obscenely smearing pre-come over his teeth, making mess of him before they get started. Instead, Papyrus shoves in all at once, the entry a brutal one, scraping the back of Sans’s throat where the skewer has already rubbed him raw. He manages not to choke, but the effort brings tears to his eyes. He lets them flood over, knowing both Chara and the human will probably enjoy them.

He hasn’t even had time to adjust to the first intrusion before he feels Cinderin pressing forward, the blunt shape of his cock probing between Sans’s labia for his entrance. Sans can’t help but cringe at the threatening girth of him, and he has a moment to be minutely grateful that magical constructs are so much more flexible than flesh before he’s groaning open-mouthed around Papyrus’s cock as Cinderin presses into him. The slow, unhurried entry is crueler than force would be. Though Sans can’t see him from his current contorted position, he can feel Cinderin’s hands resting casually on the grill to either side of him, completely unaffected by its heat.

“How does he feel?” he hears Chara ask, their voice filled with that familiar note of hungry curiosity that’s so earnest Sans has almost come to find it endearing. He’s under no illusions about what Chara is, but unlike others, he’s never felt like there would be any merit in subjecting them to judgement. It’s pointless to resent a predator for its taste for blood. Chara’s nature is just as violent and intrinsic to their being.

“Tight,” Cinderin grunts just as Papyrus offers, “Hot.”

Cinderin gives a small snort of amusement. “Weakling.”

“I’m not a huge fan of the idea of my dick burning up,” Papyrus says, his voice tight, though whether it’s with pleasure or strain, Sans can’t tell. “But he’s being a good boy, keeping his mouth nice and soft for me.”

Sans gives a small gurgle of assent, his tongue curling over the ridge of his teeth to soften their edges. His mouth feels dry, his magic too taxed to be producing any saliva, but he’s sure Papyrus is cheating by allowing his cock to secret enough fluids to keep their magics gliding smoothly together.

He hasn’t had a moment to consider how his pussy might fair, taking a cock that was essentially composed of fire, but surprisingly Cinderin’s heat hasn’t scorched him dry. His body is also made more of magic than physical matter, but instead of a liquid lubricant, he feels a prickling of magical frisson with each of Cinderin’s thrusts that eases the friction to a gratifying drag. It’s intent that makes the difference, and despite Cinderin’s callousness, he must want Sans to enjoy this on some level. Perhaps it’s more entertaining that way.

While Cinder’s cock isn’t the largest he’s taken, the obstruction of the ring through his pelvis means there’s less room for his magic to take shape. His passage feels tighter, more constricted, and so each time Cinderin bottoms out inside him the stretch feels like it’s pushing at his limits. He can’t help the little hiccups of sound that escape him at the apex of each thrust, when he feels too full, too weak to take it, his body trembling on a dangerous precipice of over-stimulation. He can’t tell if it’s good or bad, but it’s definitely more than he wants, especially with the heat beneath him finally breaking through the outermost layers of his skin, his false-nerves translating the damage as something that’s far more like real pain. Despite his best attempts to stay pliant and limp, he can’t help but writhe, shifting and wriggling back and forth, trying to protect the growing fissures in his blistering magic as desperate sobs work up his throat.

Papyrus is trying to be kind. He’s angling himself down against Sans’s tongue, rubbing hard and fast. He’s doing all the work, trying to speed things along, but Sans can feel the tension where Papyrus grips the sides of his skull and knows with unpleasant clarity that Paps is struggling. The smell of burning magic is the opposite of arousing, and it’s all Sans can do to keep from biting down against the pain. The dick in his mouth keeps his shrieks muffled at the back of his throat, but with each thrust little staccato cries of sound escape him. The weeping mess of spittol and tears congeals on his chin and drips downward. He hears liquid sizzling on the griddle.

It’s a small mercy that Cinderin’s unhurried thrusts are gaining momentum, perhaps finding it difficult to remain unaffected with the way Sans’s cunt is seizing around him. The friction is still more of a dry burn than Sans could ever find comfortable, but the malleable shape of Cinderin’s body means there’s no harsh drag or tearing. In better circumstances, Sans thinks he could almost enjoy it, but with flames burning both inside and out, his pelvis feels like it might splinter from the heat. He holds desperately to the magic of his ecto-body, because without it he might just fracture into pieces.

Though not even a moment later, he’s wondering if that would be so terrible. Strain is bleeding into an exhaustion so oppressive he can feel his world dimming at its edges. There’s a terrifying seduction in its gentleness, the way it trickles through him, softening the pain, tempting him with unconsciousness. He’s so full, stretched and stuffed and suffocating, thick heat filling up his skull, that he can barely remember why giving up would be such a bad idea.

Blinking muzzily through blurring, fading vision, he catches a glimpse of red at the corner of his vision. Chara’s bright eyes bore into his soul, reminding Sans that as always, the choice isn’t really up to him, and a moment later he’s choking violently on a throatfull of come. There’s no room for swallowing or dignity. He heaves it back up, tasting sour bile along with the salty sweetness of Papyrus’s magic.

“Fuck,” Cinderin growls, and Sans’s next gasp of breath is choked out of him as the elemental takes a fierce hold of his cervical vertebrae and heaves him upwards. The minor reprieve of being lifted from the grill is countered by being impaled even more deeply on Cinderin’s cock, his own weight and gravity forcing it so far inside him he can feel it distending the inside of his scalded belly. He wheezes, toes curling and eye-lights rolling as he feels the length inside him quiver, expand, and finally release as Cinderin reaches his own peak. His come feels boiling hot, and Sans lets out a croaking scream, twitching feebly as the pressure inside him swells to an unbearable degree.

It takes several long, agonising seconds for Cinderin to finish, compose himself, and finally deign to ease his cock back out of Sans, letting the blistering trickle of fluid escape. Sans is dimly aware of it seeping out of him, vulgar trails trickling down his thighs, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s taking his every effort just to stay conscious and breathe, desperately trying to find a cool snatch of air to circulate through his charred ribs. He’s a limp, stringless marionette that Cinderin delicately lifts and lays out on the blessedly cool benchtop. He’s placed face-down, letting the humans see the darkened, heat-scorched bone and mottled burns on his back and rump. The ring through his pussy still feel hot, and his only weak concession is to part his legs so it’s parched edges aren’t branding his thighs, not caring how it spreads his abused cunt wide open to let more of Cinderin’s fluids bleed out of him.

It hurts so badly that being alive doesn’t feel like a mercy. He presses his face to the counter, uneven sobs still spilling out of him, almost too loud for him to make out the conversation happening above him.

“…-looks amazing, doesn’t he?” Valory was saying, a perturbing kind of hunger in her voice. “…-the smell is divine-…-carve off a piece and have a taste?”

Her words fade in and out of coherence as Sans tries to convince his body to recover. He almost can’t believe he survived, but surely that means it’s over now. He won. He did it. Chara will have to spare him; those are the rules they play by.

“Undercooked food is bad for you, Mistress,” Cinderin says contritely. “This one’s not ready yet, though if you’re ready for me to prepare him for dinner-”

“Hey, now, that seems like a waste, doesn’t it?” Papyrus hurriedly injects, only a slight uneveness to his voice betraying the full extent of his alarm. “Cooking him only lets you enjoy him once. Don’t you think he’s shown he can be a better investment if you keep him around?”

“If our tastes are too exotic for your chaperone, you can send him back upstairs,” Valory offers Chara, her voice sweet and tempting. “Surely you want to try the little roastling for yourself, don’t you? Look at how perfect he is.”

Sans blinks to clear his unfocused vision, search for Chara’s face. This is the part where they find some convenient excuse to claim him. They’ll tell Valory how enamoured they’ve become with his pain and his years. They’ll want to buy him. They’ll make her an offer she won’t be able to refuse, a generous commission and an unspoken promise of favor and support in the vicious games the human nobility like to play.

Chara is staring at him, their breathing coming slightly fast, pupils blown wide. He can see their short, blunt nails scraping at the top of the bar, curling in unfathomable need.

“I do wonder,” they say, their voice soft and dreamy, “how good he would taste.”

“No!” he gasps, jerking violently. Even delirious with pain, Chara’s words flood him with terror and disbelief. They can’t mean that, they wouldn’t, they can’t-!

Cinderin grabs Sans by the hip, holding his twitching body steady as he retrieves the skewer. Sans splutters incoherently, writhing like a hooked worm, agony jolting through him with every motion. He twists until he can see Papyrus’s face, not caring how it looks to an outsider, begging with his eyes for the other skeleton to pull Chara back and save him…but Papyrus only stares at him, struck equally silent and horrified. His posture is curled and helpless, like he doesn’t know what to do, and Sans realises with terrible suddenness that he won’t intervene.

No one will save him.

“No no no NO-!” he begs. His soul feels like it’s going to combust with the amount of panic pent up inside it. His magic is surging violently, but most of it is held back behind the restrictions of the collar and the rest is still manifested and bound tightly over his bones. He doesn’t think he could dispel it even if he wanted to, and for a wild moment, he thinks maybe that alone will save him. Cinderin is pulling his legs apart, but his pelvis is still swaddled in ecto-flesh. There’s no place for the spear to pass through him…except it’s only stupid desperation that fools him into believing that, and he has only a single, sharp moment of wretched realisation before Cinderin lines up the point of the skewer with his recently abused pussy and shoves it in.

The noise Sans makes – a high, screeching wail of utter agony – is so foreign in his mouth he doesn’t even recognize it at first. He doesn’t expect to hear it or anything. That first tearing push should dust him, but though he can feel the damage being done, his inner walls tearing around the unforgiving girth of steel, the point jabbing deeply into his pseudo-stomach, incredibly he’s still alive. The scientist in him is distantly fascinated, but there’s a peculiar sort of sense to it. His ecto flesh isn’t part of his real body, it’s only magic. Although it has special nerves that are tried to his soul to give him an impression of sensation, it’s not made to transmit pain or damage any more than his bone attacks would be.

Instead he only wishes he was dead, because he’s never felt such pain as when Cinderin gives the spear another harsh push, fighting to push the skewer further into him, and Sans begins to feel his magic breaking. The tip of the spear cleaves through his insides, and mindlessly Sans desperately tries to hold it together to stop the skewer’s awful progress when what he should have done is let go and allow it to dissolve. He doesn’t, he can’t, it’s too much, too overwhelming, his voice screaming itself raw as he convulses in terror and-

Something breaks. He breaks. It’s almost a relief, the intense feeling of pressure giving way, and as it slips so does his consciousness until everything is dim and distant and quiet.

He almost thinks he must be dead, and if so, it’s incredibly peaceful. The pain is gone, both the sharp stab of the spear, and even the tight pinch of his burns. His body feels loose and – ha, boneless! He’ll have to remember that one later. It feels strangely literal, as if all the tension in his body has unwound, leaving his joints feeling unconnected and floaty.

“Wow,” Chara says, their voice sounding unnervingly close, but blurred as if Sans is listening to them from underwater. “I’ve never seen that happen before.”

“It’s broken,” Valory says, sounding almost impressed. “Is it going to dust?”

“Probably,” Cinderin grunts, sounding intensely displeased. Sans feels a faint sensation around his…arm? Leg? It’s strangely hard to tell. His bones feel numb, although there’s a faint chill prickling over them, combined with a perturbing wetness that feels too thick to be sweat. Cinderin avoids it carefully as he picks over Sans’s body, grumbling, “Fell to pieces…can’t even put him back on the skewer…”

The reminder makes an emotion – too fast and crippling to be processed – lurch through Sans like a spark of lightning. Something hot churns in his throat, and before he can stop himself he heaves up a mouthful of liquid magic, formless and curdled. It pools under his face, but he can’t even lift his head from the vile puddle. He feels Cinderin flinch back with a curse.

“Disgusting,” the elemental declares. “It’s ruined. I wouldn’t even make stock out of this.”

He sounds so offended by the watery waste, Sans almost laughs. A gurgling sound emerges from his throat, along with another mouthful of bile. It has the same awful taste to match the way his magic smelled when it was burning on the stovetop. The realisation makes him heave again, until he’s not sure there’s anything else to come up.

“Ugh,” Valoriy says, the pout audible in her voice. “I’m gonna lose my appetite.”

“Oh, well, we can’t have that,” Chara laughs. “How about we return upstairs. Your Chef can cook us a proper meal and my chaperone can clean up this…mess.”

Their conspiratorial whisper is anything but quiet, and Sans clearly hears them add, “I’m sure we’ll have more fun without him watching…and you can show me some of your other special dishes.”

The way Valory laughs might suggest she thinks Chara is flirting with her, coy and delighted. “Of course…but ah. It’s a shame this one is ruined. I did so want to give you something memorable.”

“Don’t worry,” Chara reassures her, their voice growing distant. “It definitely was.”

A door closes. There’s a terse moment of silence before Papyrus gives an effusive sigh. Sans feels pressure – detached, disorienting – against his scapulae. “Okay, buddy. Time to pull yourself together, huh?”

Sans shudders, almost choking before a weak, awful laugh breaks free of his chest, because he can feel it now; the way his bones have lost their connections, his rib-cage collapsing in on itself, his tarsals and phalanges scattered across the floor like a particular poor roll of die. His magic’s so frayed he’s literally fallen apart, but be can’t help but find Papyrus’s joke morbidly hilarious.

Then, blessedly, he passes out and doesn’t have to think about it any more.


End file.
